Lazarus Falling
by miryna
Summary: “Time of death, 2:47 A.M.” He does not let go of her hand until the warmth has faded, giving way to the eerie chill of death. [angsty HouseCameron, includes character death]
1. I: Death

**Title:** Lazarus Falling 1/?  
**Word Count:** 946  
**Characters/Pairings:** A little House/Stacy, House/Cameron  
**Rating:** PG-13, may get up to R  
**Warnings:** Character death, angst  
**Summary:** "Time of death, 2:47 A.M." He does not let go of her hand until the warmth has faded, giving way to the eerie chill of death.  
**Disclaimer:** C'mon guys, if I owned House I would have better things to do with my time than wander 'round the intarwebs.  
**Author's Notes:** Not beta'd, although I did self-edit the piece. I would love to have a beta, so please let me know if you're interested! I could beta your own fic in return, if you wish, because I have lots of spare time lots of school work and turn to fanfiction as a form of escapism. Also, I apologize for the awful title, it is subject to change.

I  
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"Time of death, 2:47 A.M." He does not let go of her hand until the warmth has faded, giving way to the eerie chill of death. Her skin was always pale but now it is alabaster white, and it contrasts starkly with his ruddy flesh (deader than hers, even now). Mark Warner runs into the room, breaking the heavy stillness. Horror and disbelief are etched in his face.

"Stacy!" Mark snatches her other hand and kisses the frigid fingers. Mark's eyes move from her face, which is remarkably peaceful and relaxed, to the brown at her middle (the blood has dried now, and hardly looks like blood anymore). "Stacy!" He repeats the mantra again and again, his voice growing ever more mournful.

At last House sighs and gets up. "There... was nothing they could do," he says, and exits with as much tact and quiet sincerity as he can muster. He cannot bring himself to snap at the man who has been his enemy for so long. Their grief (almost tangible) unites them, though House denies it. He even has the upper hand now, because he was the last one to see her alive. He collapses on a shiny leather couch, once outside the small room, and tilts his head back against the wall, eyes falling shut.

He tries to clear his mind, thinking of a blank wall, focusing on the vast expanse of white, leading nowhere, coming from nothing; he can't do it, but instead finds himself wondering if it's all some kind of dream, designed by his frustrating subconscious to make him think about Stacy, and what losing her could do to him. He feels a hand fluttering across his neck, to settle on the padded shoulder of his blazer. Instinctively, he knows the hand is Cameron's.

Now he is sure that this is reality, because he couldn't invent a touch like that, so warm, so soft, so strong. Only she could be that pliable and hard at the same time: a rock and a teddy bear simultaneously. The part of him that misses Stacy, the part of him that makes stupid decisions, the part of him he trusts least, wants to cup her rosy cheek in his hand and offer her a half-smile of thanks, of guilt, of acceptance. That part of him, though, always leads to pain.

"You marry another dying guy, or are you just here for the cool t-shirts?" He opens his eyes and stares at her, gaze unyielding. He wants to see her eyes go dark with anger and the corners of her mouth droop even lower. He wants to watch her to stomp away, heels clacking. He wants her to feel just an infinitesimal fraction of what he was feeling right now: the emptiness and the numbness that has infiltrated his whole being.

Allison Cameron is predictable—invariably and unfailingly. He has her all figured out. Right now though, she is a mystery, because instead of running away, she comes closer. She gives a wry laugh, and says, "Yup, I'm on number two now. Pity the cancer isn't terminal this time, though--if only I'd known that when he'd proposed to me!" She pauses, and he searches her face (trying to pry away the mask). Three years ago, she never would have said something so wonderfully flippant. What's changed? (She's gotten stronger.)

"You know, some people would say that being married twice before reaching the age of thirty shows immaturity and lack of decision making skills. Not me though, I'm open minded."

"I'm here to see you, House." Her voice is quiet and sounds like trouble. He hates her for not leaving, for laying siege on his defenses and dragging down his guard with those eyes, blue or green or hazel (he can't decide which) and those lips (turned down even when she smiles).

He rolls his eyes. Leave it to Cameron to spoil the mood by being serious. As used to her as he is, he can't help but be a little surprised. A moment ago she was sarcastic, now she is utterly (beautifully) earnest.

"How the hell did you find me? Have you forsaken your little crush in favor of stalking me?"

She shakes her head. "I was in the city visiting some friends, we heard the shots walking down Third. I'm sorry, about Stacy." (She will never tell him that she heard he was going out for a night on the town with Stacy, and got jealous. That she followed them. That she saw the bullet hit Stacy hard in the chest and send her crashing to the ground with a dull thwump.)

He shoots her a long, appraising stare. She has to be lying, it's too much of coincidence to be believable. But how else could she know? He needs time to think, to let the ache in his gut fade, and right now she isn't helping. The way she is looking at him makes him want to run, regardless of throbbing in his thigh, run and run until everything goes away. Or, shoot up morphine. "Go away," he orders Cameron.

"I have a hotel room booked for the night. Two beds."

"Much as I'd like to be taken advantage of in my sleep, I'll get my own room, thanks."

"Fine," she says with a dangerous smile. She walks away and he senses she is trying to tell him something with the gentle swish_swish_ of the hem of her jacket against her jeans. And for once, he doesn't know what.


	2. II: Search

**II****  
**

He can't bring himself to get up and leave the waiting room, to walk out of the hospital, to check into a hotel, to leave Stacy all alone (Mark doesn't count, he decides) in the stark, unfriendly hospital. At last a nurse gives him a sympathetic smile and tells him that he has to leave, as visiting hours ended long before he arrived, and, as he is not actually a relative of a patient, he can't stay over night.

He wanders listlessly downtown, watching a drunk on the other side of Fifth Avenue, the Central Park side, stumble back and forth. The moon is a half circle hanging low in the sky, covering the city in a silver film. A lonely bus snakes its way along the street, totally empty, bright green digital letter on its front proclaiming that it is "Out of Service."

Even New York, the city that never sleeps, is deserted at four o'clock in the morning, especially in this upper middle class residential neighborhood, where bored teenagers really _are_ prosecuted for loitering outside multimillion dollar condos. He peers into the dimly lit lobby of one such building as he passes under its long green awning. There is a twenty four hour doorman, but right now he is fast asleep, ridiculous black top hat pulled over his face, feet (ensconced in leather dress shoes) propped up on the desk. On another night, House would have made a game out of waking up the doorman and asking questions about the building's residents. Tonight, however, he can't seem to get into the mood for mischief (something he has never thought possible) and instead continues on his search for a decent hotel room.

By the time he reaches 86th street, he has almost given up. He had passed a grand total of one seedy boardinghouse that didn't have any vacancies, anyway. It's late; his thigh is killing him. He is prepared to camp out on a park bench alongside the homeless junkies when he spots something that looks suitable. The Franklin Hotel. It looks pricey and quietly Victorian. But a bed's a bed, and he has his credit card. He can worry about borrowing the money from Wilson later. Stepping into the hotel lobby, he is surprised to see Cameron sitting in a pink-upholstered armchair, reading. He freezes and moves to quietly back out of the hotel, but it's too late. She's seen him. She puts down her book and shoots him a coy smile.

"Fancy meeting you here," she says as she walks over to him.

"I am flattered by your stalking, Cameron, but really--" He is distracted when her sweater slips off one shoulder, revealing creamy flesh and the black lace of her bra. Who let her out of her room dressed like that? Apparently unaware of his lingering glance, she grins up at him. He realizes that the faint pressure on his arm is her hand and he is led further into the lobby. At this he protests, and stops stubbornly in the middle of the room. "I'm finding another hotel."

"House, it's late. I'm tired. You're tired. Don't make this difficult."

He chuckles because it sure as hell can't be easy, now (that Stacy is gone). Everything has suddenly changed, inexplicably. It's not like he was living with Stacy, or even seeing her regularly. But now, he will never be able to exchange cutting remarks with her again. The first time she left, he won her back with relative ease, letting years pass, waiting for her to come to him, using her sick husband as an excuse (he told himself that was all it was). The second time, after he shoved her away, he simply called her up and turned on the charm. A few days later they were in New York, eating at a restaurant like civilized human beings. Death, though, he could not fight with, argue with, convince in any way. This time, she was gone for good.

Cameron seems to think she can help him get over Stacy's death by distracting him with her feminine wiles. It's not going to work. He does have some principles.

"I'm not sleeping with you," he informs Cameron.

For some reason, she gapes at him in shock. "You think I'm trying to seduce you, House?" He doesn't say anything. What is there to say? "I wouldn't do that. Not now. I--I know you loved Stacy. It's not easy to lose someone you love like that."

"You would know," he says pointedly, watching the pain surface in her eyes. She is far too easy to manipulate, to infuriate, to devastate. Tonight she is stronger than usual, though, and remains firmly at his side.

"This isn't about me. I don't want anything from you. Not sympathy, and certainly not sex."

"Ah, so the cleavage is just a friendly gesture? You plan to help me get through the bad times by flashing me every so often?" He eyes the exposed curve of her breasts appreciatively. "I could go for that. Just don't give Wilson any ideas."

She looks down and blushes furiously. Her fingers fly to her chest and hastily fasten the top few buttons. "I didn't mean to--I'm not--"

"Relax." He rolls his eyes at her. "Where's that room you mentioned earlier?"

"It's on the second floor, but there's an elevator." The relief is obvious in her face. They are silent as they walk to the elevator, get in, and then walk along the hallway to Cameron's hotel room. She unlocks the door and lets him inside. A lone queen size bed stands in the middle of the room. He stares accusingly at her.

"That doesn't look like two beds to me."

"Oh, there's a cot underneath it." She pauses, sensing his uncertainty. "And yes, I _do_ plan on letting you take the real bed."

He grunts in reply.

"You're welcome."


End file.
